


Wingman

by vanilla_alia (ashheaps)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 01:37:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashheaps/pseuds/vanilla_alia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick and Pete are both insecure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wingman

“You know what would be a really sweet gift?” Pete proposed, tapping proficiently at his Sidekick without missing a beat as he spoke.

“Hmm,” Patrick hummed in question, raising a new fingernail to bite at.

“Getting this thing covered in diamonds,” Pete smiled a little at the notion, still messing around with the keypad. The bus made a sharp leaning turn and Pete’s body moved with it, never taking his eyes from the screen.

“Your cell phone?” Patrick asked for confirmation, pointer finger wedged between his teeth, lips accommodating the digit to speak.

“No, my Sidekick,” he emphasized the proper noun. 

“Pete, I would gladly accept some ice from you. As well as, dare I say a ring?” Pete looked up finally, fingers freezing. 

“Patrick I-” he started, trying to work out some sort of words half explaining his twisted stance on their newly exclusive relationship.

“It was a joke, get it? Like, I was saying it like I was the Sidekick,” Patrick interrupted, teeth clicking together as he bit down into the air in his mouth. Pete eased up a bit, giving in.

“Yeah, I got it.” 

++

Pete was never as smooth as he hoped he was when things got heated. He practically tore Patrick’s hand off as he lead him to the back of the bus where he was certain no lounging band mates were playing a rousing game of who-can-tell-the-grossest stories, a contest Pete had uncharacteristically withdrawn from. He shut the door behind them softly but harshly slammed Patrick’s shoulder against the bus wall. Pete held the back of his neck, lifting Patrick’s lips to smash into his. Pete planted his feet on the outside of Patrick’s own, leaning fully onto the boy, trapping him to the wall. The kissing went on dutifully for a few moments before Patrick shoved equally at Pete’s shoulders, eyes gleaming.

Pete smiled crooked, smacking Patrick in the side of his head. Patrick retaliated and shoved Pete harder to the side. Pete hit the storage cabinet with a loud thud, the door cushioning him in the hardest way possible. Pete lunged forward, tussling with Patrick, throwing small punches at his chest. Patrick had a slight advantage over Pete, but that didn’t bother the older man at all. They fell to the floor, smacking and roughhousing while trying to ignore their slowly hardening erections. Patrick’s hat was knocked off first, nicking some odd corner as Pete tossed it from their path. Pete grunted as he tried to catch Patrick’s wrists while Patrick did his best to get on top of Pete. Legs strewn to either side of Patrick’s writhing waist, Pete grinned triumphantly with a devilish downturn of his eyes. He took both wrists raised above Patrick’s head into one hand and strategically placed his free hand on the side just at Patrick’s waist. 

Suddenly the door flew back and Joe, upon seeing the scene in front of him without question, threw himself at Pete. He wrapped his arms around Pete’s frame and tackled him downwards. Joe fell on top, pinning Pete down with his body, limbs flailing around them. Pete grunted as he hit the floor and Patrick sat up quickly, trying to conceal his overt erection. Joe stilled just as abruptly upon bumping his leg into Pete’s crotch. He looked back to Patrick who blushed at him while searching for his hat. Pete cleared his throat.

“I didn’t know it was, um, that kind of wrestling match,” Joe excused, hopping up without another word. He ran his hand through his hair nervously and shut the door behind him, never turning around.

+++

“Fuck the Sidekick; you know what would be a sweet addition to the tour bus?” Patrick mused, lolling his head back on the couch in the front of the bus, fingernails forgotten.

“Enlighten me, sir Interior Design,” Pete intoned. His Sidekick beeped techno loudly. “High score,” he explained.

“A pull up bar,” Pete paused and looked up at the younger man, eyebrows scrunched.

“What?”

“A pull up bar, you know, like-”

“Yeah, I got that too. Are you drinking?” Patrick rolled his eyes.

“What’s so wrong with me wanting a pull up bar in the bus?”

“You,” Pete said slowly, “wanting a pull up bar, that’s the problem.”

“You know what, fuck you, I’ve been working out.” Pete lowered the neglected electronic to his lap.

“Since when?”

“Are you telling me it’s not working?”

“No, I’m telling you I’ve been with you twenty hours a day for months and have not seen you lift a weight.”

“Tyson has all that work out shit in his tour bus. I go there when you’re out being Mr. Glitz, and just, whatever,” Pete just looked at his friend with no indication of looking away.

“You know you’d be the first person to wake up in the pitch dark and knock your head against it. Then you’d pass out, and your sleepless friend would have to come bring you back to consciousness,” Pete leaned back a bit more. Patrick shifted in his spot opposite.

“All a ploy to get closer to you,”

 

++

Patrick was still seventeen when he lost his virginity. Pete had coaxed him for a couple years in various failed relationships before Patrick realized that the only “someone special” in his life was Pete. Any why not, he had thought, seize the day.

They had been making out heavily one sleepover in Patrick’s room with the door locked and the desk chair wedged under to buy time. Pete pulled his own shirt off and guided Patrick’s hand to his crotch, placing the trembling hand spot on. Patrick had shuddered a bit, but soon found to like the slightly weaker resistance Pete’s cock offered his hand. It had been so much freer than he had imagined; Patrick realized he was still living under some illusion that all first times happened the same way.

Pete reciprocated the motions on his jeans on Patrick’s, except he was going straight for skin. With heated words and the sweetest whispers Patrick had ever heard, Pete whisked off both their jeans without Patrick being entirely cognizant of it. It was the first press of his solid untouched skin to the slightly worn counterparts of Pete’s that made Patrick realize exactly what Pete was calling for. He had been wondering what the slight lump in Pete’s pocket before had been then he noticed Pete fingering the small foil packet secretly beyond Patrick’s vision. Pete slid his hand under Patrick’s shirt, mussing it upwards before Patrick stopped him.

“No,” he had choked out, so beyond embarrassed, “leave it on,” 

“C’mon ‘Trick” Pete had pleaded with him, “please,” he had drug his bottom lip over Patrick’s chin and rested it back on his mouth. He had tried once again to lift up Patrick’s shirt but to no avail. He had met Patrick’s eyes utterly miffed and sympathetically understanding as much as Patrick wanted to deny that no, Pete was ignorant and wouldn’t understand his insecurities. He kept that eye contact till Patrick’s eyes bulged in intrusion from Pete’s fingers and he couldn’t hold back any of those throaty noises he’d suppressed with Pete for so long.

“Shh,” Pete had crooned into his ear; Pete had always wanted to be so close. Patrick turned over on his own volition much to Pete’s dismay, but after much assurance that yes, he really did want it this way, Pete gave up and did his best without looking. Pete had been so gentle and had tried so hard, but Patrick couldn’t get over that ache enough to enjoy it. He’d seen When Harry Met Sally enough times while his parents were out of town to know what a convincing bluff could and should sound like and he had timed it well enough so that Pete wouldn’t have guessed twice unless he’d been watching Patrick’s tear stained face. Patrick felt he had nearly bit through the pillow, indefinitely unable to enjoy his transition into sexual jadedness. 

Pete had fallen forward, pinning the boy to the bed, but Patrick had managed to roll out from under him without letting Pete see his face. He slipped shamefully into the bathroom and didn’t come out till Pete’s silent pressure from the other side of the attached bathroom’s door ceased. Pete had been curled up on the bed when Patrick finally came out, but the moment Patrick lay on the other side of the bed, Pete’s body had eased up behind him.

“Oh Patrick,” Pete had whispered so lightly, small trade winds across his cheek, “I’m so sorry,” Pete couldn’t even hold back and Patrick had felt those accompanying river tears flowing down to his neck as Pete had rested his head right there. Patrick stiffened up and bit his lip, rolling his shoulders a bit.

“Pete,” he had said firmly, but still too light to be his own sure voice.

“Oh Patrick,” Pete had repeated again, slipping his arm over Patrick’s body.

“I don’t want to be touched right now,” Pete had cried harder as he rolled over without protest. Patrick had felt so cruel, listening to Pete sob so close to him, still so attached and detached all at once. Pete had curled up as small as his body allowed and when Patrick had woken up and seen Pete’s arm red from his fingernails he had cried again.

++

“Okay, all time best gift,” Pete resumed the game on his Sidekick, dangling his sentence.

“What?” Patrick gave in, bracing himself for some very tasteless joke.

“A new tattoo,” Pete said prideful.

“Completely lame, body art is overrated,” 

“Not when it means something,” Pete explained himself.

“So painful memories mortalized to ink equals best-present-ever status?” Patrick rearranged himself on the couch, laying down on a balled up hoodie to cushion his head.

“Pretty much, yeah”

++

Pete started to feel guilty whenever he went to church after, well, everything. It didn’t help that being on the road touring made it near impossible to attend any sort of religious gathering. But Pete still brought his Bible with him for the first part of their tour when the van and the trailer were still laughably new, way before the backseat became synonymous with the “away” that all trash wash thrown. Naturally introverted, Pete hid the Bible wherever he could—under the seats, in his backpack, behind fast food containers. 

It wasn’t until a good half year with the van that Patrick went on a cleaning spree in a venue parking lot when they showed up ungodly hours early, severely overshooting their arrival time. Naturally he found the Bible wrapped strangely in one of Pete’s discarded shirts, orange with a soda spill. But he didn’t immediately think to turn to Pete. He cautiously had opened the front cover to find Pete’s full name printed in elegant script just above “Love Grandma.” He examined the muted gold leafy pages like something strange; admittedly it had been a few months since he had even thought of a Divine One other than record producers and talent scouts.

He found Pete behind the club climbing a ladder that clearly wasn’t meant for public use. He called his name and Pete leaned backwards dangerously. Patrick screamed girlish and ran under the ladder while Pete let his hands slip, crook of his knees carefully catching his body weight, slowing his pseudo-fall down to a sickening heart attack pace for Patrick. 

“Holy fuck,” Patrick panted, leaning against the rusted ladder, “You’re fucking crazy man, fuck,” he couldn’t catch his breath for his dizzying head. Pete looked up at him, really looking down but up at the same time, indifferent expression painted on. His shrug looked strange as his oddly loose shirt began to ride up from gravity and overall, well, being inverted-ness. After a few moments of carefully watching Patrick freak-the-fuck-out, red-faced Pete heaved himself upward again and kept climbing to the roof of the one-story. 

“Wait, I wanted to ask you something,” Patrick called.

“Climb up into my office then,” Pete peered over from the roofline. Patrick tried to pull himself up onto the raised ladder while still balancing the Bible. Pete had to have had a running start, Patrick thought as he once again couldn’t hoist his leg up high enough to reach the mid-chest high wrung. 

“Patrick, seriously man, if this is a metaphor, you need to get back in school right now,” 

“It’s the fucking Word of God that’s keeping me down,” Patrick cursed as he failed, yet again, to get his footing on that ladder.

“Why are you carrying the Bible?” Pete moved over to the ladder to somehow unlatch it and lower it. Finding a sort of hook, he followed its path. “Heads up, Tricky,” as he unleashed the lever and down the ladder went, legs landing right outside of Patrick’s feet.

“It’s actually your Bible, or at least someone’s Grandma is under the impression it’s your Bible,” Patrick said as he climbed the ladder, thrusting the Book in Pete’s direction. Pete didn’t even need to check, feeling the familiar crack of the soft maroon cover in his hands.

“Where’d you find this?” he wandered over to Patrick, who had sat down on some overturned bucket beside the walled ledge of the roof. 

“In the van, wrapped in your shirt; thus, yours.” Pete hopped up onto the flat ledge, opening to the first verse he could find.

“Oh my God,” Patrick muttered as Pete leaped onto the wall; an easy breeze and he should cross his fingers for a bush to land in. 

“Better to be a nobody and yet have a servant than pretend to be somebody and have no food. Proverbs 12: 8,” Pete read aloud. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Patrick said quietly.

“It means Divine Intervention has called me to read that verse in this setting at this moment because it should speak to either of us particularly,” Pete paced on the wall, making Patrick more nervous with every daring small leap. He jumped down to the roof again, level with Patrick’s feet.

“Thank God,” Patrick breathed a sigh of relief.

“Do I hear sarcasm in that Golden Voice?” Pete questioned, corners of his mouth turned down while his eyebrows heightened.

“Why’d you bring the Bible with you?” Patrick asked gently.

“Thought I’d get a head start on eternal salvation. Save yourself motherfucker,” Pete pulled up a half broken chair and sat strangely next to Patrick as the overcast clouds shaded their bodies, the sun a mere white hole in that grey expanse.

“Seriously Pete, why didn’t you tell us you brought it?”

“I didn’t tell you which toothbrush I brought. And in case that was your follow up question, my Mr. Bubbles toothbrush is neatly stored in my shaving kit in the first pocket of my red bag,” Patrick sighed, conceding any efforts towards a meaningful conversation.

“Do you, you know, read it and stuff? I’ve never seen you read it,”

“Sometimes, if you’re all asleep and I'm homesick, I turn to a page and find something to highlight. It’s a story book, you know? Just heavier content, I suppose,”

“I didn’t know you were still into that, you know, God thing.” Patrick admitted.

“I’m not really,” Pete answered offhandedly open, “just feels a bit safer with it around.”

++

“What’s the best gift you’ve ever received then, other than my eternal friendship and occasional sexual prowess?” Pete asked.

“My first guitar, the first real one that wasn’t my dad’s.” Patrick answered all too quickly. 

“You know something, Trick?”

“Tell me, darling,”

“You sing like a girl,” The Sidekick in Pete’s hands made a defeated 8-bit concession.

“Well you play bass like a wimp.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Pete asked defensive.

“Your shoulder strap is too short; you hold it way up on your chest. Your short arms don’t help either, since you hold it so far back on your hip.”

“Well I didn’t ask for an open attack on my masculinity,” Pete flipped the cover to the device closed, cracking his fingers.

“Different strokes for different folks,” Patrick shrugged.

“Speaking of stroking…” Pete trailed off.

“As if,” Patrick yawned from his stretch on the couch.

“Not even for a birthday gift?” Pete begged puppy dog eyes.

“Where’s that number for the crystallizing place?” Patrick joked, “And I’m gonna need your Sidekick for a week or so.”


End file.
